


Warmth

by oninoshirosaki



Series: Love Is... [14]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oninoshirosaki/pseuds/oninoshirosaki





	Warmth

He likes to stand in the rain, unsheltered.

You like to watch him (though you'll never admit it) from your office window, or the front porch of the Cavallone Estate, or wherever the fuck you are when he decides to indulge; whimsical creature that he is.

You often wonder if he does so because he embodies the Rain, or if it's the other way around. You wonder if he does this so that no one will see him cry.

 _This_ time, you're seated behind the wheel of your sleek black Porsche; rooftop open and raindrops eagerly making themselves at home against the plush leather interior you've just fucked him on scant minutes ago.

You watch him stand outside - quiet and still, like the broken second hand of an old clock - gazing heavenward with eyes closed, seemingly uncaring that he might catch hypothermia or something much worse from this unforgiving cold. His silver hair falls like a curtain concealing his back, like a veil that's as thick and unyielding as this downpour - so violent and _angry_ that it's almost hard to see right through.

You _know_ what that hair means, know that the moisture pulling it straight down to his upper thighs _isn't_ the reason it looks so heavy. You unavailingly wonder if he'll ever cut it off.

It's strange, but even now, you feel this inexplicable need to _protect_ him.

He would laugh in your face if he knew - tell you he's in no need of protection - even when his eyes always fail to hide the blatant lie. He knows pride like you know Namimori, wears it well the way you used to wear that red and gold armband upon your sleeve (so many eons ago now - even before thirty you're old, too fucking _old_ ).

Yes, he's more than well acquainted with whatever's left of his mangled pride; clings to it the way a dying man clings to his last breath, the way his thoroughly soaked garments cling like a lover to his pallid skin (so akin to how your raiment adheres to _yours_ ).

Even now, you hear Dino's voice - weary and resigned like a father admonishing his child against something he _knows_ will be done anyway - as distinct as an ocean's rolling echo in your ear, _"What are you **doing,** Kyouya?"_

You don't know. 

You've never had an answer for him back then, you sure as shit don't _now._

And the thing is, maybe you don't really _need_ one. Maybe you don't really _give a fuck._

Maybe all you need is the umbrella in your hand, the hard swing of the door when you shove it open - never one to be gentle; you're not the sportive affection of your tutor, or the ceaseless well of compassion that is Sawada Tsunayoshi - and the bottom of your leather shoe hitting the muddied earth.

Maybe all _he_ needs is _you;_ guarding him from the rain he likes to drown himself in, standing by his side with nothing between you but silence and the few meager inches which keep your shoulders from touching (may as well be a fucking _chasm,_ sure as fuck _feels_ like one), like they're trying to make up for that hour you spent covering every inch of his body with your own.

The rain sounds unusually loud against the surface of your black umbrella, like it's mad at you for withholding its prey from its reckless onslaught. Fuck it (if anyone knows anything about being a predator, it's _you_ ), fuck _all_ of it. 

Like this abstruse curl of possession (first a delicate piece of thread, thin as any lie, now it's fucking _cordage_ ) winding its way through your veins; pervading - fucking _burning_ \- through your erstwhile impervious steel heart the way _Superbi fucking Squalo_ stole his way under your skin when you should have damn well been looking but _weren't._

Your eyes - gelid as the corpses you left to fester in the abandoned warehouse some thirty feet from this clearing, scalding as the intoxicating feel of him tight around you - traverse the meandering trail of bite marks his collar fails to hide, black and blue and blood fucking _red,_ all over his neck, his clavicle, his lithe, gracile frame; visible now through the white cotton fabric of his shirt that's rendered transparent by the ragged, numbing rain.

His eyes - diamond-hard irises of gray tinted silver, sharp like knives digging into your flesh - meet yours; questioning, uncertain. He does this a lot, like he doesn't have all the answers either; clear-eyed as he often claims to be.

He _isn't_ \- hasn't been for fucking _ages_ \- but it doesn't matter, cause _you're_ clear-eyed enough for the both of your fucked up selves.

Maybe _this_ is all you need. 

Superbi Squalo smiling at you - thin like the veneer of cocksure bravado he so painstakingly shrouds himself in, like the ghost of broken homes he's never been able to emancipate himself from - in a tacit display of what you're almost certain is _gratitude._

His smile is another notch on the bedpost, another name crossed off the list, another baby step on this seemingly sempiternal road to recovery.

Even now, you wonder if you'll ever reach the end.


End file.
